


stay close

by Val_Creative



Series: IT Movies Fic-Palooza 2019 [27]
Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Women, Ben Hanscom Loves Beverly Marsh, Beverly Marsh & Richie Tozier Are Best Friends, Beverly Marsh Loves Ben Hanscom, Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, Drama & Romance, Established Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, Explicit Language, F/M, Friendship/Love, Gay Richie Tozier, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Minor Character Death, Murder, No Smut, Past Abuse, Post-IT Chapter Two (2019), Self-Defense, Smoking, Soft Richie Tozier, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-02
Updated: 2019-10-02
Packaged: 2020-11-22 06:06:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20869418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Val_Creative/pseuds/Val_Creative
Summary: Beverly doesn’t miss the beautiful words on the postcard consumed by the fire. They exist in Beverly’s heart and in Ben’s mind.





	stay close

**Author's Note:**

> Requested by gentlesleaze (AO3): "they both let it sink in that the postcard and yearbook page are gone (like what it meant to them, how they don't really need it now etc.) Or Ben being there for Beverly during her divorce process? Honestly anything post-canon." WE GOT OUT OF CONTROL AGAIN. I really wanted Tom dead. So badly. Anyways I hope you guys like this one and as usual, any comments/thoughts are welcomed!
> 
> ((Want a request for IT? I'm doing 100-1000 word fics of any friendship or romantic ship + any prompt until I feel like quitting. Rules: you need to comment here and provide a friendship or romantic ship + prompt. You need to specify if you want SFW or NSFW (for 18+ readers only). Please check [Full Rules](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1478582). The only requests I'll be looking at is if you ALSO commented about the fic you read as well. It's only fair. You came to this fic to read it and me doing something for you later on is a sweet bonus!))

*

This is the hardest part.

Coming back.

Beverly gazes up to her old bedroom apartment's window, down on the snow-dusted pavement. Chicago seems gloomier. Maybe it's just her these days. She restlessly folds her arms, smoking and listening to Richie talking to Ben. They're both here in Illinois for her. Supporting her. Her best friend and the love of Beverly's life.

She doesn't want to be longer than necessary. It was tedious and humiliating enough to return to her personal office after court.

"_Yep_, it's evil," Richie states, looking up offended at Beverly's window as well. He sneaks away Beverly's menthol e-cigarette, puffing. Admittedly, she's been trying to cut down on the nicotine habit. "_Uh huh_. I say we torch the place if he's still inside."

Ben turns, giving him a mildly chastising look. "Richie…"

"Come on! We could rustle up some illegal fireworks, tie his ass to a chair, and _boom_! Literally!"

"Richie, you're not helping."

Beverly's lips thin into a smile "He's helping a little," she admits, squeezing Ben's hand and feeling Richie hug her from behind. Richie's lips plant to her cheek with familial intent. This is what she needs—a _family_ who wants her. Makes her feel _safe_.

"You sure about this, Bev?"

Ben's voice filters in, soft and steady.

"No," she confesses. Beverly fiddles with her keys, going to the apartment's door and turning the lock stiffly.

_But it's what needs to be done._

In the middle of the afternoon, there's plenty of yellowing sunlight filling up the entryway. She examines the foyer's closet for the larger travel suitcases, but all have gone missing. Tom must have took them.

Richie whistles to himself, holding a bowl and chucking an assortment of fake plastic fruit at the glittering, diamond-bright chandelier above their heads.

"I don't think he's… here…" Beverly murmurs, staring awestruck at the grand staircase. The oil painting of her and Tom shredded. Like he took a cutting knife and lashed out in a fit of violent rage.

Ben's hand rubs the length of her back, easing Beverly from the terror-filled reverie.

"The suitcases are upstairs, I think. I can start packing and walking them down. Could you do me a favor and look in the pantry-closet for something?" she asks a clearly quizzical Ben. "There's a lipstick smear over a floor-panel. You need to break the panel. Pry it apart with the screwdriver on the crate. There's around eight hundred dollars hidden in there."

Ben's eyebrows lift high. "Smart," he comments, bestowing a quick, warm kiss on Beverly's lips.

*

It looks like a tornado blew through the master bedroom and bathroom. Beverly's jewelry missing and the cash.

Not that it matters in the long run—she's already shut down the joint bank account and cancelled all of her cards. Without Tom's knowledge, Beverly kept a private and international bank account of her own. Something he couldn't track.

She moves around her walk-in closet, hurriedly pulling out armfuls of clothing and piling them into the extra suitcases opened on the king-sized mattress.

All of Beverly's underwear is missing too. Her stomach churns.

There's narrow space between Beverly's closet and the bed, and she's figuring out that's been on _purpose_. Less room for her to retreat from Tom's possessive hands. He insisted on all of Beverly's collection of heels, urging her to wear them every day, and the business skirts riding up her thighs.

Tom Rogan had been a hunk when Beverly first met him, clean-cut and charismatic. The gel in his dark, stylish hair smelled like wood-musk. He gifted her bouquets of flowers and chocolates and platinum necklace-chains. And then, Tom gifted her with bruises.

_"Bevvie…"_

Beverly freezes, her hands having pushed down on her suitcase's contents. He's standing there, when Beverly glances over her shoulder, blocking the doorway. Scruffy. Eyes bloodshot. Tom reeks like liquor and rotted, greasy takeout.

"The court ordered you to stay off this property."

"I knew you were coming," he insists, slurring a little. Beverly clenches her teeth sharply onto the tip of her tongue. It could have been _any_ of their mutual friends in Chicago who betrayed her trust. "You look good. Incredible."

"I'm moving out, Tom," Beverly speaks up, lifting her chin. Now's not the time to sound _frightened_. It'll only rile him up.

"What will you do without me?"

"_Live_."

She says it with firm, wistful conviction and Tom's dark eyes widen in shock.

Beverly stomps over to her dresser-drawers, yanking them open, hearing him stomp right after her. As soon as his fingers brush her arm, Beverly spins around, thrusting Richie's switch-blade in Tom's direction until he backs off.

"Don't _touch_ me," Beverly growls out. "You are _not_ allowed to touch me. _Ever again_."

She should have seen it… Tom was never full of light or kindness. Not like her Losers. Not like Ben.

"You're still my girl, Bevvie. I can see it." Tom's whisper coming over Beverly's subconscious like tiny, harsh pinpricks. Her father's voice. "No one else is gonna fuck your dirty _WHOR_E cunt—!" he yells suddenly, upending the nearby table-stand and the lamp.

"I even _FORGAVE_ you for the abortion—!"

Beverly flinches, still holding out the switch-blade as Tom yells louder, knocking over Beverly's suitcases.

"I would _KILL_ for you—_DIE_ for you—!"

"Bev! Beverly!" Richie and Ben call for her, their footsteps approaching from the staircase.

She takes her chance when Tom's distracted by the intruders, stabbing him deep in the pectoral and running. Running for her life. Beverly cries out, her shoulder exploding in agony as a livid Tom lands a hit with her jar of face cream. She falls forward, the switch-blade skidding away from Beverly's grip. Tom overpowers her, jamming the loaded pistol from his belt under Beverly's jaw.

Richie appears from the hallway, gawking.

"_Beverly_!" Ben hollers, realizing Beverly's on her knees and captured. He struggles in Richie's arms trapping him.

"Are these your two little boyfriends, Bevvie?" Tom fists into her red-auburn curls. He arches Beverly's head to him, stage-whispering in her ear. "_Hmm? Do you let them do all the sexual things to you that Mike does_?"

"Let her go!"

Tom motions to Ben with his pistol. "I'm not fucking talking to you, queer!"

"Hey! _I'M_ the fucking queer here and we're saying you don't want more trouble than what's already gone down." Richie nods to him, trying to sound as calm and serious as humanly possible. "We walk outta here, alright? No problem. You and Beverly can talk out what's been going on and live happily ever after. But you gotta put the gun down first, amigo."

It's no more true that Richie would let it happen than Tom listening.

"Don't you _FUCKING_—!"

As soon as Tom waves his pistol again, Beverly acts fast, elbowing him in the testicles. She grasps the end of Tom's white-tee as he keels over, moaning in pain, tugging all of the material over his head. Her fingers wrestling the gun in Tom's hand.

It fires.

"_BEVERLY_!" Ben yells, voice cracking.

He grabs onto her, holding them upright as she stumbles backwards, paled. Tom collapses, gasping, his white tee flecked with red. The bullet-wound in his chest spouting out bright, bright blood.

*

On the way to the hospital, Tom Rogan dies.

The police aren't charging them with anything. It's Beverly's legal property, and her ex-husband was trespassing and broke his court-ordered restriction. He attacked Beverly unprovoked while intoxicated and drugged up on cocaine.

Ben finishes his statement, joining Beverly on the outdoor apartment steps.

She's hollow-eyed, wrapped up in an emergency blanket.

"I should have come upstairs with you."

"He was my monster to face," Beverly murmurs. In another second, she's weeping, crumpling under the weight of her emotions. "_And to kill_." Ben doesn't reach for her, but patiently waits, Beverly's trembles lessening.

"Can I hold you?" he asks, offering a gentle smile.

Beverly nods, desperately wanting it, leaning into Ben's arm to her. He's mindful of the taped-up gaze to Beverly's injured shoulder. "You're alright… you're alright, Bev…" She fully turns, hugging Ben's middle, feeling him bury his face into her neck.

"Ben?"

"Yeah?"

"How many poems did you write?" Beverly asks. "About me?"

Ben glances over her, confused.

"Just the one."

"And you kept the yearbook page. For that long."

He lets out a nervous and higher-sounding laugh, cheeks flushing. "_Yeah_… it's a little embarrassing, huh…"

Beverly's mouth twitches into a grin.

"Not to me," she says, palming over the side of Ben's face.

Beverly doesn't miss the beautiful words on the postcard consumed by the fire.

They _still_ exist. They exist in Beverly's heart and in Ben's mind.

They share a brief, soft close-mouthed kiss. Ben pulls away to kiss Beverly's wet eyelids, and then her forehead, mumbling her name so tenderly, so earnest.

"Let's get the fuck out of here," Richie grumbles from Beverly's other side, unnoticed.

*


End file.
